UC-NRLF 


IN  THE  HIGH  HILLS 


A 


MAXWELL  STRUTHERS  BURT     ' 


U- 

••^"" 


IN  THE  HIGH  HILLS 


IN  THE  HIGH  HILLS 


BY 


MAXWELL  STRUTHERS  BURT 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

<$fc  fitoertfbe  J£re*£  Cambridge 
1914 


COPYRIGHT,   1914,  BY  MAXWELL   STRUTHBRS  BURT 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Published  March  1914 


CONTENTS 

THE  MACHINE 3 

MYSTERY 4 

REST 5 

THE  HILL- VALLEYS 6 

THE  HILL-BOBN 7 

SONG 9 

THE  HARVEST 11 

IN  THE  HIGH  HILLS 12 

DROUGHT 14 

DAWN 16 

AMENDS 17 

COLIN  FORTUNATUS 19 

AND  THE  WOMEN  PRAYED 21 

GIFTS  23 


345092 


THE  STREET  OP  THE  MANY  LITTLE  LOVERS      .        .  26 

THE  WATCHERS  ON  THE  ROAD 31 

THE  FLUTE-PLATER 34 

THE  DESERT 38 

THE  MARCHING  FEET 41 

THE  FOUR  WINDS 52 

THE  CITY  OF  DESPAIR 54 

VIA  CRUCIS    .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .57 

ROMANCE       .       .       .       .       .       .               .       .  60 

THE  QUIET  WAYS 64 

THERE  WAS  A  KING  IN  BABYLON       ....  68 

FIFTY  YEARS  SPENT  74 


IN  THE  HIGH  HILLS 


THE  MACHINE 

ONCE  in  a  dreary  place  where  women  die, 
I  watched  a  work-worn  spirit  leave  the  clay, 
And  as  the  breath  came  quick,  in  grotesque  way, 
Her  fingers  thumbed  the  air,  and  one  foot  high 
Pressed  up  and  down  the  coverlet  awry. 
The  pale  nurse  nodded;  "Every  hour  each  day, 
So  in  the  mills,  poor  soul,  she  earned  her  pay. 
I  wonder  will  she  like  the  open  sky?" 
O  woman  form,  that  God  hath  made  divine, 
So  cunningly  contrived  of  blood  and  flesh  and  breath, 
That  you  should  spin  your  soul  away  in  twine, 
And  at  the  end  card  wool  with  waiting  Death! 
Will  such  as  you  within  the  silent  tomb, 
Find  only  this,  a  respite  from  the  loom? 
3 


MYSTERY 

MINE  ears  have  caught  some  melody  of  winds, 
Some  far-off  echo  of  the  flutes  of  dawn, 
Stirring,  all  tremulous,  the  leafy  blinds, 
With  faint  gold  music,  dying  and  withdrawn. 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  sun,  for  mile  on  mile, 
Touch  with  a  torch  of  rose  the  mountain  ways; 
And  watched  at  dusk  down  darkening  forest  aisles 
The  quiet  mysterious  going  of  the  days. 

And,  0,  my  heart  was  glad  as  dawn  that  I, 
Out  of  my  ignorance  could  find  unfurled 
A  splendid  signal  flung  across  the  sky 
And  sense  a  hidden  music  in  the  world. 


REST 

THE  hills  call,  the  dew-glad  morning  hills, 
Above  the  dust  and  fever  of  the  plain; 
Could  I  lay  aside  my  yoke  of  old-time  weariness; 
Could  I  take  my  staff  and  seek  the  hills  again; 
The  far  hills  where  dawn  is  sweet  with  rain. 

After  much  thirst,  much  hungering  at  nightfall, 
When  the  long  way  beyond  my  striving  seems, 
Would  there  come  suddenly  the  keen,  sweet  breath  of 

valleys, 

And,  afar  off,  the  sound  of  twilight  streams, 
In  quiet  hills  where  dusk  is  cool  with  dreams? 

The  murmuring  of  rivers  and  the  wind, 
A'starlit  place  of  shadows,  liquid,  deep; 
Ah,  and  a  night  of  infinite  forgetting, 
Night  of  the  calm  great  hills  that  vigil  keep; 
The  mother  hills  where  weary  men  find  sleep. 
5 


THE  HILL-VALLEYS 

IN  the  hill-valleys,  the  cool  valleys,  valleys  that  I 

know, 
You  can  sit  all  day  with  flowers  at  the  edge  of  the 

snow, 

Sit  all  day  with  flowers  and  let  your  soul  possess 
The  round  open  quiet  and  a  great  gentleness. 

In  the  hill-valleys,  the  still  valleys,  valleys  that  I  love, 
You  can  watch  the  clouds  a-sailing  in  the  blue  sky 

above: 
Watch  the  clouds  a-sailing,  and  then  come  down  at 

night 
To  your  dear  love  waiting  and  your  own  home  light. 


THE  HILIr-BORN 

You  who  are  born  of  the  hills, 

Hill-bred,  lover  of  hills, 

Though  the  world  may  not  treat  you  aright, 

Though  your  soul  be  aweary  with  ills : 

This  will  you  know  above  other  men, 

In  the  hills  you  will  find  your  peace  again. 

You  who  were  nursed  on  the  heights, 

Hill-bred,  lover  of  skies, 

Though  your  love  and  your  hope  and  your  heart, 

Though  your  trust  be  hurt  till  it  dies : 

This  will  you  know  above  other  men, 

In  the  hills  you  will  find  your  faith  again. 

You  who  are  brave  from  the  winds, 
Hill-bred,  lover  of  winds, 

7 


Though  the  God  whom  you  know  seems  dim, 
Seems  lost  in  a  mist  that  blinds: 
This  will  you  know  above  other  men, 
In  the  hills  you  will  find  your  God  again. 


SONG 

YOU'RE  as  lovely  as  a  dawn  of  winds 

Over  the  high  hills  calling : 

Flush  of  gold  as  the  last  star  fades, 

Sound  of  waters  falling; 

Here  are  flowers  on  the  dew-wet  green 

And  the  throbbing  note  of  a  bird  unseen! 

Break  o*  the  day,  the  dawn  is  yours, 

And  the  hush  and  the  stir  and  the  singing; 

The  poignant  scent  of  a  canon  rose 

A  small  warm  wind  is  bringing: 

And,  O,  the  stir  of  me,  lift  of  me,  thrill, 

As  the  first  light  renders  fine  the  hill! 

Hush  o*  the  night,  when  the  stars  are  free 
And  the  wind  brings  word  of  the  river; 
9 


Answering  word  from  the  listening  dark 
Where  haunted  aspens  quiver: 
Yours  is  the  heart  of  those  who  pray 
In  the  passionate,  silent  forest  way. 


THE  HARVEST 

I  WILL  arise  now  and  go  into  the  fields,  to  my  love  who 

is  at  work. 
Dusk  droops  from  the  mountain-tops  like  the  shadow 

of  a  great  bird's  wing : 
In  gray  corrals  the  cattle  call; 
And  in  the  grass,  where  all  the  tangled  perfumes  of  the 

summer  lie,  the  crickets  sing. 
From  afar  off  I  will  see  him  leaning  upon  his  rake, 
And  the  lithe  sweet  strength  of  him  will  stir  my  heart 
As  a  bird  stirs  in  a  twilight  brake, 
Stirs  and  quivers  and  throbs  into  a  song. 
Ah,  my  dear  love,  how  close  I  find  you  now, 
Where  peace  is  and  the  quiet  of  the  hills. 


11 


IN  THE  HIGH  HILLS 

GOD  has  lent  the  wind  to  you, 
Swept  the  great  sweet  mind  of  you 
Keen  and  clean  and  splendid  as  the  noon  on  peaks 

agleam. 

Peace  of  sunny,  hidden  hollows 
Down  whose  slope  the  long  light  follows, 
And  the  hush  is  musical  with  dripping  mountain 
stream. 

God  has  lent  his  coolness,  too; 
Wet  green  woods  and  bramble-dew; 
Scent  of  quivering  aspen  leaves  still  joyous  from  rain; 
Ah,  if  one  were  burned  with  sorrow, 
Sleep  would  come  until  to-morrow 
From  a  dream  of  cool  fine  hands  to  bless  with  peace 
the  pain. 

12 


Noon  among  the  high  white  hills; 

Evening  where  the  forest  thrills, 
Magical  with  moonlight,  the  scented  ambient  hush: 

Things  like  these  are  part  of  you, 

Soul  and  mind  and  heart  of  you: 
Winds  and  storms  and  sunny  days  and  sparkling, 
dawn-wet  brush. 


DROUGHT 

DAY  in,  day  out,  dust  devils  dance 
Along  the  ridge.  The  cattle  die 
Stark  mad  by  leperous  water-pools. 
Day  in,  day  out,  in  wicked  trance 
A  white  sun  sears  in  twain  the  sky. 
And  we  who  know  so  much  are  fools, 
And  god  is  dead  —  and  you,  away: 
You  in  the  north  and  I  so  parched  — 
Day  after  day,  day  after  day. 

Night  after  night,  the  red  moons  creep, 
Like  lizards  in  the  purple  heat, 
Across  the  dead  hills  to  the  east. 
Night  after  night,  I  cannot  sleep 
14 


For  memory  of  wind  showers  fleet 
And  the  cool  sweetness  of  your  breast. 
When,  when  will  there  come  the  good  wet  rain, 
Peace,  and  you  in  my  arms  again! 


DAWN 

ALL  night  the  wind  wove  evil  in  the  hills, 
The  great  ghost-witches  of  the  dusk  drove  on, 
Till  suddenly  there  fell  a  hush,  a  peace, 
And  Christ  walked  clear-eyed,  radiant  through  the 
dawn. 


AMENDS 

If  I  were  blind, 

Nor  never  knew  the  sweet  green  glory  of  the  Spring, 
Still  could  I  hear  at  dawn  the  lark, 
Thrush  song  at  dusk,  and  stir  of  wing : 
Ah,  who  could  be  disconsolate 
When  left  so  many  a  lovely  thing! 

If  I  were  dumb, 

And  on  mine  ear  fell  loved  melodies  in  vain, 
Could  I  not  see  the  splendid  sun 
And  taste  the  cool  of  summer  rain: 
And  in  my  heart  be  memories 
That  silence  stirs  to  song  again! 

If  I  were  dead, 

Then  what  were  left?  Would  you  not  coming  o'er  me 
weep; 

17 


And  kneeling  by  my  narrow  bed, 
All  night  a  wide-eyed  silence  keep:  — 
What  then  could  man  ask  more  of  God 
Than  this  —  your  love  and  sleep? 


COLIN  FORTUNATUS 

COLIN  once  a  shepherd  boy, 

Lithe  and  sweet  and  hobbledehoy, 

Crowned  with  leaves  that  a  chance  hand  chooses 

From  a  bank  of  dew-wet  roses; 

Early,  early  morning  singing, 

Up  the  fields  like  a  bright  bird  winging; 

And  over  the  hills  in  the  wake  of  dawn, 

The  cool  shrill  notes  of  a  piping  faun. 

O,  to  lie  in  the  grass  with  Pan  — 
Large,  goat-heeled,  delightful  man! 
Hear,  like  wind  in  a  forest  walking, 
The  silver  murmur  of  his  talking. 
All  at  once  the  flowers  are  brighter, 
All  at  once  the  blue  is  lighter, 
19 


All  at  once  you  find  that  over 

Your  head,  the  bees  talk  in  the  clover  — 

Till,  a  sudden  shower  of  rain, 

His  laughter  dies  down  the  golden  grain. 

Gone!  In  market-place  and  forum, 
Where  the  elders  meet  in  quorum, 
You're  a  great  man,  Colin,  now, 
Portly  shank  and  bent  of  brow. 
Argosies  from  Lydian  waters 
Bring  rich  spoil  to  deck  your  daughters, 
And  your  good  wife  takes  a  pride 
In  her  mantle  Tyrian  dyed. 

Gold,  for  all  the  gold  of  sunrise! 

Tyrian  dress  for  purple  dawn  skies! 

And  for  faun  pipes  sweet  and  bitter, 

Laggard  feast  and  servile  titter; 

What  would  you  give  to  be  a  man? 

Once  more  in  the  grass  with  goat-heeled  Pan, 


AND  THE  WOMEN  PRAYED 

DEAB  Lord,  who  loveth  passing  well 

Thine  own  beloved  Son, 

What  do  they  win,  these  little  prayers, 

That  seek  Thee  one  by  one: 

These  little  prayers  that  find  Thy  feet 

Like  doves  whose  flight  is  done? 

The  little  prayer  of  Mary  Rose 
Who  pleads  on  worn  knee 
That  Thou  keep  safe  from  cruel  things 
Her  pretty  lad  at  sea: 
The  little  prayer  of  this  pale  one, 
Before  the  candles  seven, 
Begging  Thee  guard  till  she  be  there 
Her  little  child  in  Heaven. 
21 


What  do  they  win,  these  little  prayers, 
That  seek  Thee  one  by  one; 
Dear  Lord,  who  loveth  passing  well 
Thine  own  beloved  Son? 


GIFTS 

PRINCETON  — 1912 

THREE  things  would  I  bring  to  you, 
Bring  as  a  man  to  his  mother  returning; 
A  heart  that  is  young  despite  the  years; 
The  same  old  unfulfilled  yearning; 
And  all  in  all,  let  be  what  would, 
The  keen,  swift  faith  that  God  is  good. 

For  these  things  do  I  owe  to  you, 
Taught  me  once  when  I  was  a  boy; 
And  only  the  poor  in  heart  forget 
In  graver  times  what  they  knew  in  joy, 
Or  think  since  their  own  small  world  is  sad, 
That  the  heart  of  the  world  is  aught  but  glad. 
23 


Love  of  towers  I  learned  from  you, 
Skyward  held  like  hopes  of  men; 
Love  of  bells  across  the  fields 
Heard  at  dusk  intoned  —  and  then 
Just  the  way  a  yellow  light 
Fell  from  a  window  in  the  night. 

Moon-white  hours  I  learned  from  you, 
Small  warm  winds  the  elm  scent  bringing; 
Evenings  when  the  Spring  was  held 
By  young  voices  old  songs  singing; 
And  by  dusk  and  dawn  and  day 
Gentleness  from  buildings  gray. 

These  I  learned,  and  love  of  the  sun, 
Open  fields  and  windy  weather, 
Work,  and  striving  for  the  fun, 
So  that  hearts  are  brave,  together; 
More  —  the  faith,  if  faithful  you, 
Sometime,  somewhere  dreams  come  true. 
24 


The  world  is  a  world  of  truth,  I  know, 

And  man  must  live  by  the  truth,  or  die; 

But  truth  is  neither  a  poor  dried  thing 

Nor  a  strumpet,  tawdry  gorgeous  lie; 

But  just  the  fact,  that  by  doing  and  giving, 

Young  dreams  come  true  while  a  man  is  living. 

So  I  would  bring  three  gifts  to  you, 
Got  from  you  by  loving  and  learning; 
A  heart  that  is  young  despite  the  years; 
The  same  old  unfulfilled  yearning; 
And  all  in  all,  let  be  what  would, 
The  keen,  swift  faith  that  God  is  good. 


THE   STREET   OF  THE   MANY  LITTLE 
LOVERS 


THE  gaunt  gray  street  goes  up  the  hill,  over  the  hill 

and  down, 

At  night  it  lies  a  scar  of  light  across  the  pallid  town 
And  Jezebel  meets  Dives  there,  Madonna  walks  with 

clown. 

All  day  the  paths  are  troublous  with  those  who  sell  and 

buy, 
All  day  the  air  is  murmurous,  till  dusk  droops  from  the 

sky, 
Then  passing  strange  the  quiet  change  where  the 

whispering  shadows  lie. 


For  like  a  brood  of  timid  moth,  black-winged  and 

white  of  face, 
From  hidden  door  and  byway  forth,  the  lovers  of  the 

place 
Flit  two  by  two  their  stale  day  through,  to  win  an  hour 

of  grace. 

With  red,  cruel  lips  that  stab  the  dark,  pale  Circe 

plies  her  trade. 
Lust  of  the  night  is  swift  and  stark,  but  youth  walks 

unafraid, 
Strolling  there,  with  virginal  air,  young  lovers  in  the 

shade. 

Pale  little  lovers,  drab  and  dim,  beneath  the  white 

lights'  glare; 

Man  in  the  travesty  of  Him  and  girl  of  stupid  stare; 
Yet   all    the   dusk   is    tremulous   with   inarticulate 
prayer. 

27 


Aye,  up  and  up  the  prayers  arise,  on  fetid  breezes 

blown, 
Up  to  the  utter  naked  skies  where  a  great  star  swings 

alone, 
And  small  desires  build  flickering  fires  before  the 

darkling  throne. 

Whisper  adown  the  languid  air  that  stirs  the  sick, 

stale  heat, 
Where  love  walks  cannot  walk  despair,  though  love 

has  leaden  feet, 
For  above  the  light  is  the  quiet  night  where  his  wings 

are  wont  to  beat. 

"We  would  not  know  the  ways,  O  Lord,  of  wonder  and 

desire. 
What  could  we  make  of  still,  sweet  days,  or  nights  of 

rose  and  fire? 
Dawn  and  the  dew  are  meant  for  few,  for  the  poor, 

dead  flowers  in  the  mire." 
28 


"A  little  surcease  now  and  then,  fuel  and  clothes  and 

bread, 
Children,  that  we  may  rest  us  when  the  palsy  nods 

our  head, 
And  in  the  end  enough  to  spend  on  a  coffin  for  our 

dead." 

Drab-souled,  who  scarcely  know  ye  pray,  far  less  the 

grave  import, 
Ye  cannot  feel  beyond  a  day,  you  poor  of   man's 

disport! 
Yet  every  soul,  I  take,  seeks  dole  of  joy  in  some  small 

sort. 

Shadows  that  drift  across  the  night,  woof  and  warp 

and  loom, 
Be  glad  of  even  briefest  light  in  the  crowded  street  of 

doom; 
Would  ye  fill  for  aye  with  your  loves  the  way  in  a  world 

that  is  scant  for  room? 
29 


The  gaunt  gray  street  goes  up  the  hill,  over  the  hill  and 

down, 

At  night  it  lies  a  scar  of  light  across  the  restless  town, 
But   love  walks  there  with  weary  eyes  and  mud- 
bedraggled  gown. 


THE  WATCHERS  ON  THE  ROAD 

THE  hill  road,  the  desert  road, 
The  road  down  to  the  ford: 
At  each  one  stands  an  angel 
With  a  white  and  terrible  sword, 
And  through  the  day  and  through  the 

dark 
They  watch  in  the  name  of  the  Lord. 

Stark  as  the  heat  of  burning  noon 
The  brooding  in  their  eyes; 
The  swords  they  bear  are  keener  far 
Than  wind-whipped,  sun-swept  skies; 
And  the  stirring  of  their  wings  is  such 
As  when  a  great  tree  dies. 


31 


The  crickets  in  the  grass  give  pause 

When  the  great  swords  ring; 

The  leopards  hark  of  a  star-still  night, 

The  eagle  rests  on  the  wing : 

And  only  the  little  folk  go  by 

Nor  know  the  wondrous  thing. 

Only  the  little  folk  who  crowd 

The  roads  as  they  travel  by, 

With  their  laden  wains  of  foolish  gear, 

To  the  town  against  the  sky; 

And  they  never  know,  the  little  folk, 

That  the  watch  of  the  Lord  is  nigh. 

Perchance  at  night  a  lonely  one, 
Or  one  who  drinketh  late, 
Senses  the  glimmer  of  a  sword, 
Or  the  stir  of  the  wings  of  fate, 
And  a  moment  his  eyes  are  troubled 
As  he  fumbles  at  his  gate. 
32 


But  save  for  this,  the  road  so  filled, 

They  look  not  left  nor  right, 

Lest  by  day  their  hearts  be  dazzled, 

Lest  they  lose  their  way  by  night, 

And  a  gleam  they  see,  they  write  it  down, 

As  star  or  street-lamp  light. 

Once  on  a  time,  there  came  a  man, 
With  the  fine  heart  of  the  seer, 
And  straight  he  beheld  the  watchers 
And  cried  that  the  Lord  was  near:  — 
But  the  little  folk,  they  blinded  him, 
And  cast  him  out  for  fear. 

The  desert  road  is  hot  and  cruel, 
Hard  is  the  road  to  the  ford, 
And  at  each  one  stands  an  angel 
With  a  white  and  terrible  sword. 


THE  FLUTE-PLAYER 

THERE  comes  a  day  when  April's  in  and  Spring  walks 
down  the  city  street, 

And  barrel  organs,  everywhere, 

Make  songs  for  little  children's  feet; 

And,  O,  the  chestnut  trees  are  sweet! 

The  crocus  blossoms  in  the  square  — 
'Till  suddenly  as  breath  o'  pain  you  catch  the  flute 
notes  here  and  there: 

A  single  note!  Another  higher! 

Up  to  the  gray  cathedral  spire! 

Elusive  as  a  skylark  winging : 

And  the  heart  of  you  goes  out  in  singing. 

Just  a  moment,  and  they  are  still;  but  all  the  hours  are 

gay  with  light; 

The  stars  creep  out  in  purple  skies 
34 


And  yellow  lanterns  jewel  the  night 
Where  hansoms  flit  to  left  and  right 
Like  huge  enamored  fireflies. 

Young  voices  stir  the  lilac  dusk  with  murmur,  laugh- 
ter, fall  and  rise; 

And  once  again,  where  the  shade  lies  thick, 
You  hear  the  flute  notes,  cool  and  quick! 
A  silver  call  —  a  demi-quaver, 
The  shyest,  happiest,  quaintest  flavor! 

They  say  that  oftentime  in  June,  when  roses  deck  the 

quickset  hedge, 
A  lover  and  his  lass  will  note 
Far  off,  beside  the  river's  edge, 
Amidst  the  purple-irised  sedge, 
The  glimmer  of  a  pyed  gold  coat, 
And  on  their  ears  a  fluting  fall  as  soft  as  from  a  black 

bird's  throat; 

Then  he  will  think  her  fair  as  flowers, 
May  dawn,  June  rivers,  August  showers; 
35 


And  both  young  hearts  will  set  a-beating 
As  on  the  eve  of  their  first  meeting. 

And  once  I  saw,  when  Winter  blew  the  sun  behind  a 
saffron  sky, 

From  out  the  shadow  of  a  thorn 

The  twinkle  of  a  watching  eye  — 

Outrageous  humorous  and  sly  — 

Above  a  gold  coat  gay  and  torn; 
And  heard  within,  without,  beyond;  —  a  pipe,  a  bird, 
a  flute,  a  horn; 

A  singing  underneath  the  snow  — 

How  could  I  tell,  my  heart  beat  so? 

But  that  was  when  from  oversea 

My  dear  love  had  come  home  to  me. 

Once,  long  ago,  the  story  runs,  a  rich  man  tried  to 

catch  the  fellow; 
He  set  a  feast  out  on  the  grass, 
And  piled  the  cloth  with  sovereigns  yellow, 
36 


And  wine  of  vintage  extra  mellow; 
But  no  one  ever  came,  alas! 
So  evening  fell  and  moth-winged  night,  and   dawn, 

when  little  swallows  pass : 
There  grew  a  knocking  at  his  gate, 
"Be  quick!  Your  brother  dieth  straight!" 
And  this  is  strange  but  past  refuting, 
Beside  the  dead,  he  heard  the  fluting! 

Ah,  none  can  ever  capture  him,  nor  over  here,  nor  over 

there, 

He  comes  when  only  so  he  wills, 
And  answers  never  a  single  prayer 
Of  beggarman  or  Rajah's  heir. 
Till  one  fine  day  his  music  thrills, 
When  least  expected,  over  the  hills : 
"Over  the  hills  and  far  away! 
We'll  find  the  dawn,"  the  flute  notes  say; 
But,  ah,  should  one  set  out  to  follow, 
They  die  in  the  echoes  down  the  hollow. 


THE  DESERT 

Our  of  the  dark  I  called  to  you;  out  of  the  enfolding 

dark  you  came; 
And   your  coming  was  a  light  above  far  hills,  when, 

star  by  star,  the  evening  breaks  to  flame. 

A  small  wind  stirred  the  hush  that  held  the  night;  I 
felt  the  heat-wan  desert  flowers  rejoice; 

And  suddenly  in  hidden  canon  clear,  the  laughter  of  a 
river's  singing  voice. 

O,  swift  your  heart  as  desert  wind  at  eve;  and  swift  as 

desert  wind  the  feet  of  you; 
And  your  cool  hands  are  twilight  after  sun,  when  sago 

lilies  lift  their  cups  for  dew. 

38 


Fierce  and  cool,  and  fierce  again  the  hours,  dusk  after 

blue  and  silence  after  light; 
And,  sudden  as  the  stopping  of  a  heart,  the  fall  of 

night. 

I  could  not  know  the  mystery  of  you,  silver  as  tall 

white  lilies  in  the  sand; 
I  could  not  know  you,  fierce  and  cool  and  sweet,  were 

not  the  desert  here  on  either  hand. 

Love  in  the  crowd  is  laughter  heard  far  off;  a  dream  of 

following  one  beloved,  forlorn, 
On  a  long  road  that  never  knows  an  end,  where  weary 

night  awakes  to  weary  morn. 

But  here  we  are  a  woman  and  a  man,  stark,  splendid, 

honest,  stript  of  shame; 
So  that  our  love  burns  bright  and  fierce  as  fire,  when 

no  wind  stirs  the  flame. 
39 


And  I  will  kiss  you  in  the  hour  of  toil,  when  all  our 
blood  is  sweet  as  sun-warmed  wine; 

And  I  will  kiss  you  when  the  dark  is  come,  folding  us 
close,  your  throbbing  breast  on  mine. 

Cling  to  my  lips,  the  desert  night  is  here!  Cling  to  my 

lips,  the  desert  night  is  still! 
And  only  the  wind  that  walks  by  dusk  is  over  us,  and 

God's  grave  will. 


THE  MARCHING  FEET 

DRUMS,  drums,  drums  to  the  fore! 
The  rattle  of  drums  and  the  tramp  of  feet: 
Throbbing  drums  and  pulsing  beat, 
Hurrying  drums  and  hurrying  feet, 
Like  the  gathering  winds  of  a  storm. 
O,  men  of  the  army  of  marching  feet, 
O,  ye  who  came  when  your  country  cried, 
Your  footsteps  haunt  each  lane,  each  street, 
Your  blood  still  makes  the  meadows  sweet, 
And  the  uplands  where  ye  died! 
I  have  heard  ye  marching  in  noonday  heat, 
Through  country  roads  where  the  dust  turns  gray 
The  hanging  boughs  of  the  trees  that  meet 
Overhead,  and  far  away, 
I  have  heard,  as  ye  pass  at  night  along 
The  still  white  lanes,  your  bugle-song. 
41 


Stern  young  faces  and  brave  set  lips, 
Lips  firm  set  with  the  vows  ye  swore, 
Ye  knocked  with  joyous  shining  eyes 
As  lovers  knock  at  a  garden  door 
And  plucked  the  flower  of  sacrifice, 
The  blood-red  rose  of  war. 
Still  to  your  lips  the  blossoms  bend, 
Nor  careless  time  can  crush  the  eternal  flowers, 
Nor  rend  from  you  the  quiet,  waiting  hours 
Of  snows  and  suns  and  stars  and  showers, 
Till  the  last  muster  call  startles  the  hills. 
But  we?  —  aye,  what  of  us? 

Have  we  forgot  the  star-touched,  echoing  past  in  this 
so  brief  a  day? 

Dull-souled  forgot  in  lesser  strife 
The  rapt  young  visions  held  more  dear  than  life? 
Hearing  no  more  beneath  the  noises  of  the  street 
The  quiet  passing  of  your  feet? 

42 


Yea,  ye  are  gone,  ye  men  of  sterner  race, 

Ye  youths  that  met  death  face  to  face  and  triumphed, 

No  more  the  hills  reecho  to  your  tread, 

No  more  on  uplands  bloom  the  flowers  red; 

And  we  your  sons  and  childrens'  sons 

Answer  no  more  the  restless  calling  of  the  guns, 

Nor  stir  within  our  sleep  for  visions, 

Gone  is  the  quickening  young  desire  for  splendid 
things, 

The  dreams  that  break  and  quiver  into  fire, 

On  Summer  nights  when  earth  is  tremulant  with  un- 
seen wings. 

What  plea  is  ours  down  the  long  courts  of  unrelenting 
time? 

That  it  were  right?  That  visions,  old,  unfit,  outworn, 

Have  served  their  making  and  must  not  be  borne, 

A  chaff  of  burdens  on  our  giant  destiny? 

For  we  are  free; 

Free,  great,  and  strong, 

43 


To  dare  new  Gods  with  casual,  irreverent  song, 
And  build  our  temples  in  the  market-place  of  wrong. 
No  longer  need  to  make  the  haunted  wilderness  a 

home, 

And  "but  a  little  path  to  God,"  the  seas: 
No  longer  need  to  bid  men  turn  with  awkward  plough 

the  loam 

And  cry,  "Here  sow  I,  Lord,  with  simple  psalteries 
In  faith  and  honest  deeds 
The  strong  clean  pregnant  seeds 
Of  this  Thy  swelling  harvest  yet  to  come." 
Yea,  we  are  fat  and  grown  white  with  pride! 
No  need  of  prayer;  nor  any  need  of  sowing? 
For  the  splendor  loved  by  Babylon, 
For  the  purpled  pride  of  Tyre, 
We  have  worked  and  we  have  won, 
Is  the  strife,  then,  through  and  done? 
Shall  we  take  our  ease  like  potentates 
Nor  heed  the  altar's  fire? 

44 


For  the  riches  that  were  Nineveh's, 

For  the  wares  of  Ascalon, 

For  the  high-piled  heaps  of  rotting  myrrhs, 

Shall  we  pawn  our  destiny  for  theirs? 

Shall  the  earth  shake,  quick  with  chariots, 

As  our  Gods,  brute  Gods,  drive  on? 

No  need  of  dreams?  We,  who  are  born  of  seers? 

We  who  are  very  children  of  a  dream? 

My  heart  stirs  within  me  like  a  drum 

And  I  hear  far  off  the  marching  of  a  host. 

Attend,  O  Lord  of  Visions,  to  our  prayer! 

May  we  know  pain,  O  God,  may  we  know  pain, 
And  pave  with  blood  and  tears  our  way 
Along  the  old  forgotten  path  again 
To  find  the  sweet  strength  of  a  younger  day. 

Lo,  Thou  hast  given  us  a  land  more  dear 
Than  that  Thou  promised  to  him  of  old, 
45 


And  we  have  made  of  it  a  drear 

Parched  place  of  tongues  and  bartering  gold. 

Yea,  we  are  strong,  full  strong  and  great, 
And  in  our  hands  we  hold  the  sword  of  might, 
But  gone,  O  Lord,  the  dream  to  build  our  fate 
A  beacon  flame  and  signal  through  the  night. 

Yea,  gone  are  all  the  hopes  that  kept  us  young, 
The  visions,  Thine,  of  unfulfilled  desires, 
And  in  decaying  temples,  far  outflung, 
Thy  priests  watch  lonely  by  the  dying  fires. 

O  God,  may  we  know  pain,  may  we  know  pain, 
And  find  with  tears  and  blood  the  path  again! 

Do  we  forget? 
Forget  so  utterly? 
Nay,  it  is  not  so! 

46 


Only,  for  moments  does  it  seem 

That  we  have  lost  the  splendor  of  our  dream. 

We  know,  had  we  but  time  to  heed,  or  hush  the  busy 

whisperings  of  greed, 
That  stirring,  pulsing,  throbbing,  slow, 
Implacable  would  rise  the  tread 
Of  the  stern  ever-marching  army  of  the  dead. 
We  —  we  are  still  the  visioned  great-souled  breed! 
Not  like  the  older  nations  from  decay, 
Not  wearily  we  sin, 

But  heedless,  reckless,  children  at  play, 
Straying,  we  have  a  little  lost  our  way, 
Nor  see  as  yet  the  darkness  folding  in: 
Aye  —  for  in  the  end,  sore  torn  and  bruised,  we, 
Like  long-lost  children,  will  return  to  Thee; 
Like  coast-born  children  weary  for  the  sea. 
And  then:  — 
Ah,  then  once  more  his  joy  who  seeing  dim 


47 


Through  clinging  mists,  dear  land,  thy  wave-swept 

shores, 

Knew  in  that  moment,  resting  on  his  oars, 
That  thou  mean'st  peace  and  dreams  to  him: 
And  then:  — 

Ah,  then  once  more  the  sword-like  keen  delight 
Of  good  green  shores  and  sun-swept,  wind  warm  day, 
When  that  gay  band  and  grave  adventurous  knight 
Dropt  ready  anchor  in  the  welcome  bay. 
O  land,  dear  land,  how  sweet  thou  wert  to  look  upon! 
Behind,  behind  us  lay  the  weary  leagues  of  sea, 
For  God  had  led  us  through  the  waters 
Through  the  perils  of  the  waters, 
Through  the  calling,  raging  waters, 
God  had  led  us  forth  to  thee. 
And  the  rose  bloomed  in  the  covers, 
There  where  the  out  shore  sprung, 
With  the  silence  brooding  over, 
A  balm  to  the  weary  rover, 
48 


While  the  rivers  sang  like  lovers 
When  the  heart  of  the  world  is  young. 

Then  the  hills  called,  bidding  us  seek  further, 

Blue  with  the  Summer's  waning  fire, 

"Ye  must  go!   Ye  must  go!   For  ye  grow!   For  ye 

grow! 

And  beyond  us  lies  the  land  of  your  desire." 
So  we  followed; 

The  forest  aisles  grew  murmurous  with  our  tread; 
On  the  hills  we  built  our  altars, 
In  the  valleys  laid  our  dead; 

Before  our  silent  moccasins  the  haunted  silence  fled. 
Beyond,  still,  still  beyond,  lay  the  summoning  sea  of 

leaves, 
To  the  quiet  folk  who  followed  fell  the  garnering  of 

our  sheaves. 

Could  we  watch  with  patient  eyes 
Red-gold  sunsets  paint  the  skies? 
49 


Could  we  hear  the  call  unminding 

Of  an  empire  for  our  finding? 

North  and  South  and  West  we  trailed 

Where  the  wild  geese  honking  sailed; 

Where  the  aloe  blossoms  paled 

In  the  living,  silent  sands; 

Where  the  leaping  waters  sang, 

And  the  hills  with  music  rang; 

In  our  eyes  the  wide  dim  distance, 

On  our  cheeks  the  smoke-blown  dust, 

In  our  hearts  the  haunting  summons, 

"Build  ye  must!  Aye,  build  ye  must!" 

And  our  cursing  was  but  praying  to  a  God  who  under- 
stands, 

And  our  sweat  was  goodly  incense  with  the  worship  of 
our  hands. 

So  we  dreamed  and  prayed  and  builded  for  the 
future. 

50 


O  beautiful  army  of  those  who  live; 
O  shining  host  of  those  unborn; 
Into  your  hands  the  dead  years  give 
The  battle  standards  stained  and  torn, 
Save  where  aloft  unfading  gleams 
The  starlike  glory  of  old  dreams. 

Hark!    Can  ye  hear  above  the  hum,  the  clang'rous 

hum, 

The  calling  of  a  drum  — 
The  far-off  calling  of  a  drum! 


THE  FOUR  WINDS 

THE  four  winds  blow  across  the  sky : 
(Wind  and  rain  and  sunny  weather!) 
The  brave  fine  winds,  how  they  hurry  by: 
(Mirth  and  sorrow  and  death  together!) 

Wind  of  the  East,  with  your  mystery, 
(Shreds  of  rain  and  a  fog-swept  fell  — ) 
You  bring  me  news  of  the  great  grave  sea, 
And  the  cry  of  gulls  and  the  sound  of  a  bell. 
Wind  of  the  South,  would  you  whisper  by ! 
Dusk  and  rose  and  a  rising  moon; 
Hark !  And  the  haunting,  echoing  cry 
Of  a  water  bird  on  a  white  lagoon. 

Wind  of  the  North,  blow,  blow  again! 
Keen  and  splendid  and  steel  and  blue, 
52 


Lands  of  silence  and  men  and  pain, 
Strong  are  the  joys  men  find  through  you. 
Wind  of  the  West,  ah,  wind  of  the  West! 
Sunset  mesa  and  far  Cathay : 
(Vanishing  sail  on  the  ocean's  breast, 
And  the  warm,  sweet  dust  of  a  desert  day.) 
Only  we  who  have  known  you  best 
Know  the  heart  of  the  things  you  say. 

The  four  winds  blow  across  the  sky: 
(Wind  and  rain  and  sunny  weather!) 
The  brave  fine  winds,  how  they  hurry  by! 
(Love  and  life  and  death  together!) 


THE  CITY  OF  DESPAIR 

DAWN  comes  not: 

And  I  have  waited : 

Watched  through  the  tired  hours  of  the  night, 

Alone,  upon  the  house  tops,  arms  outstretched, 

Prayed  for  the  first  faint  trembling  joy  of  light. 

And  all  the  dawns  rise  hid  in  somber  hue, 
Behind  black  chimneys  thrusting  up  like  spears 
Into  the  murk,  from  where  above  I  view 
The  sodden  sleeping  citadel  of  tears. 

Tears!  If  only  that  were  so, 
Some  little  cheer  for  you  and  me  to  keep; 
But  now  so  old  our  wrong,  so  dumb  our  woe, 
That  we  have  even  lost  the  will  to  weep. 
54 


I  knew  a  girl  in  this  same  sordid  street 
Who  sold  her  soul,  the  only  thing  she  had, 
Not  for  a  rose,  a  smile,  but  bread  to  eat; 
A  little  maid,  Madonna-like  and  sad. 

And  all  the  ways  are  filled  with  passing  men, 
Like  Christ  until  you  look  into  their  eyes; 
Ah,  there  is  naught  of  Godhood  in  them  then, 
But  such  a  thing  that  hope  of  hoping  dies. 

God!  I  must  have  wide  skies  and  hills  that  surge  and 

sweep, 

Rest  from  the  stark  grim  town  of  evil  dreams, 
White  clouds  that  sail  like  galleons  in  the  deep, 
And  peace,  at  dusk,  by  murmuring  mountain  streams. 

Somewhere  I  know  are  dreaming  lawns  at  eve, 
Song  of  a  thrush,  as  hidden  water,  sweet, 
Low  laughter,  singing  —  one  could  scarce  believe 
That  lovers  tryst  in  this  gray,  dreadful  street. 
55 


And  sometime  truly  Spring  will  come  again, 
For  I,  more  fortunate,  have  watched  her  glide 
Over  the  hills  where  violets  drink  cool  rain  — 
But,  ah,  that  little  maid,  Madonna-eyed. 

And  dawn  comes  not: 

And  I  have  waited : 

Watched,  weary,  through  the  hours  of  the  night; 

For  all  the  day  is  hid  and  stilled  with  fears 

Above  the  sodden  citadel  of  tears. 


VIA  CRUCIS 

Our  of  the  dark  we  come,  nor  know 

Into  what  outer  dark  we  go. 

Wings  sweep  across  the  stars  at  night, 

Sweep  and  are  lost  in  flight, 

And  down  the  star-strewn  windy  lanes  the  sky 

Is  empty  as  before  the  wings  went  by. 

We  dare  not  lift  our  eyes,  lest  we  should  see 

The  utter  quiet  of  eternity; 

So,  in  the  end,  we  come  to  this : 

Christ-Mary's  kiss. 

We  cannot  brook  the  wide  sun's  might, 
We  are  alone  and  chilled  by  night; 
We  stand,  atremble  and  afraid, 
Upon  the  small  worlds  we  have  made; 
57 


Fearful,  lest  all  our  poor  control 
Should  turn  and  tear  us  to  the  soul; 
Adread,  lest  we  should  be  denied 
The  price  we  hold  our  ragged  pride; 
So  in  the  end  we  cast  these  by 
For  a  gaunt  cross  against  the  sky. 

To  those  who  question  is  the  fine  reward 

Of  the  brave  heart  who  fights  with  broken  sword 

In  the  dark  night  against  an  unseen  enemy; 

There  is  not  any  hope  of  victory. 

While  sweat  is  sweet  and  earthly  ways  and  toil, 

The  touch  of  shoulders,  scent  of  new- turned  soil, 

Striving  itself  amid  the  thrusting  throng, 

And  love  that  comes  with  white  hands  strong; 

But  on  itself  the  long  path  turns  again, 

To  find  at  length  the  hill  of  pain. 

Such  only  do  we  know  and  see; 
Starlight  and  evening  mystery, 
58 


Sunlight  on  peaks  and  dust-red  plain, 
Thunder  and  the  quick  breath  of  rain, 
Stirring  of  fields  and  all  the  lovely  things 
That  season  after  season  brings; 
Young  dawn  and  quiet  night 
And  the  earth's  might. 
But  all  our  widsom  and  our  wisdom's  plan 
End  in  the  lonely  figure  of  a  Man. 


ROMANCE 

i 

You  were  made  of  dew  and  light; 
You  were  made  of  sun  and  sky; 
Near  a  thyme-delightful  height, 
When  the  clouds  were  riding  high 
And  the  mists  were  all  unfurled 
In  the  morning  of  the  world. 

On  a  temple-pearled  hill 
Where  the  bees  wove  drowsy  hum, 
You  lay  and  dreamed  your  fill 
Of  the  ages  yet  to  come. 
And  a  sly  Pan  crept  and  peered; 
And  a  sly  Pan  wept  and  feared ; 
For  he  knew  no  age  could  hold 
You  forever  in  its  fold 
60 


Till  time  with  centuries  fraught 
Found  the  lover  that  you  sought. 

n 

You  were  made  of  storm  and  rains; 
You  were  made  of  mist  and  spray; 
Out  of  bitter  striving  pains 
In  the  battle-haunted  gray, 
Where  the  fir  and  sea-scud  meet 
At  the  northern  ocean's  feet. 

In  the  shadow  of  an  oak 
When  the  winds  were  holding  mirth, 
Life  came  to  you  and  spoke 
Of  a  sorrow-gladdened  earth; 
For  a  Viking  found  you  fair, 
For  a  Viking  kissed  you  there; 
And,  though  glory  swept  your  face, 
Yet  you  fled  from  his  embrace, 
61 


Trembling,  wept  within  the  wood; 
Pale  with  thought  of  motherhood. 

m 

You  were  made  from  breath  of  fern, 
From  the  spell  of  mossgrown  shades, 
'Neath  a  crystal  lily's  urn, 
In  the  mystic  silver  glades, 
Where,  between  the  beech  tree  boles, 
Trod  the  deer  on  velvet  soles. 

Near  a  still  enchanted  pool  — 
Threads  of  sunlight  webbed  your  hair 
You  lay  and  drank  the  cool 
Of  the  flower-haunted  air; 
And  a  knight  came  riding  by; 
And  a  knight  remained  to  sigh; 
For  your  beauty  made  him  love 
You,  whose  heart  no  man  could  move. 


So  he  sang  full  mournfully 

Of  "La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci." 

IV 

You  were  made  of  springtime  nights; 
Of  the  dear  earth-smelling  winds; 
Of  perfumes  and  delights 
That  stir  mysterious  blinds, 
In  that  wonder-working  hour 
When  first  blooms  the  crocus-flower. 

By  a  window  dark  you  knelt 

Where  the  night  wind  stirred  your  hair, 

And  the  breathing  presence  felt 

Of  a  love  that  waited  there. 

And  I  groped  and  found  you,  sweet, 

And  I  kissed  your  hands  and  feet, 

Till  your  heart,  awaiting  me, 

From  the  mist-dim  ages  free 

Leapt  —  at  my  broken  cry  — 

Olife!  O  woman!  It  is  I! 

63 


THE  QUIET  WAYS 

THE  Great  God  made  me  a  man, 
Red  blood,  quick  heart,  keen  eyes; 
And  he  set  me  here  in  his  wonder  world 
Under  his  spreading  skies: 
Dawns  gray-red,  and  rose  rose-red, 
And  at  night  the  star  mist  over  my  head. 

The  little  ways  are  narrow, 
The  little  ways  are  mean; 
And  I  cannot  see  the  blue  sky, 
For  the  high  walls  between; 
I  cannot  see  the  blue  sky, 
Nor  the  faces  brown  and  lean. 

There  is  no  good  denying  it, 
If  you  be  mountain-born, 
64 


You  hear  the  high  hills  calling 

Like  the  echo  of  a  horn; 

Like  the  echo  of  a  silver  horn  that  threads  the  crowded 

day, 
You  hear  the  high  hills  calling  and  your  heart  goes 

away. 

There  is  naught  that  I  count  as  gain 

In  the  stolid  dykes  of  stuff; 

A  heart  that  is  free  to  sing  at  eve, 

I  count  that  gain  enough; 

And  a  single  furrow  of  new-turned  sod, 

A  man's  gift  to  a  Man  God. 

To  build  you  a  house  by  a  stream; 
To  sing  you  a  splendid  song; 
To  love  a  woman  whose  heart  is  flame; 
To  work  and  dream  and  be  strong; 
To  sow  new  fields  to  the  edge  of  the  lane 
In  seeds  that  leap  to  yellow  grain. 
65 


The  white-faced  people,  they  pass  me  by, 
With  their  sneer,  their  leer,  and  their  stain;  — 
That  Christ  should  have  lived  so  long  ago 
To  find  them  here  again! 

That  Christ  should  have  swept  the  temple  clean, 
And  they  return  to  their  booths  obscene! 

Ah,  no!  Not  the  little  folk  who  pass! 

Not  the  girl  of  the  shop  or  mill; 

Not  the  pallid  clerk  with  narrow  chest; 

Not  the  keen  fine  soul  of  good  will; 

Under  their  garb  of  sacrifice 

Their  souls  must  be  splendid  in  Christ's  eyes. 

But  the  rich  folk!    The  white  folk!    The  folk  with 

many  rings ! 

The  folk  with  silly  manners; 
The  folk  with  Many  Things; 
Is  there  no  way  to  get  them  sane; 
66 


To  make  them  lean  again; 

To  show  them  all  the  sweat  and  pain, 

The  thoughts  of  common  men? 

Nay,  I  will  go  from  here! 

For  patienter  men  than  I 

The  task  to  brook  the  fatted  leer, 

The  whetted  tusk  at  the  sty; 

For  I  know  quiet  mountain  places 

And  the  good  smile  of  lean  brown  faces. 

0  the  fine  land  where  men  are  men, 

And  women  the  mothers  of  men; 

Who  that  once  has  known  you 

But  will  go  back  again? 

To  the  quiet  fields  and  the  quiet  ways 

And  the  great  hills  that  pierce  the  days. 


THERE  WAS  A  KING  IN  BABYLON 

THERE  was  a  king  in  Babylon, 

Babylon,  Babylon: 
The  mightiest  king  the  sun  shone  on; 

(So  they  said  in  Babylon.) 

High  as  clouds  red-rose  at  eve 
Were  the  towers  he  loved  the  best; 
Country  folk  could  but  believe 
They  were  portents  in  the  west. 
"Splendid!  Let  them  keep  right  on!'* 
Said  the  King  of  Babylon. 

Terraces  he  laid  him  out; 
Emerald  lakes  beneath  the  glare; 
It  was  pleasant  in  the  drought 
Just  to  watch  the  crowd  from  there. 
68 


Thus  we  realize  the  sun," 
Smiled  the  King  of  Babylon. 

When  the  purple  evening  fell, 
Myriad  fountains  wet  the  musk, 
And  a  silver-clappered  bell 
Stirred  with  resonance  the  dusk. 
'Folk  must  wake  till  I  am  done," 
Said  the  King  of  Babylon. 

Orange  lanterns  rimmed  with  pearls 
Crescentwise  across  the  court, 
Lit  a  thousand  dancing-girls;  — 
But  the  King,  for  his  disport, 
'None  but  I  must  look  thereon," 
Quoth  the  King  of  Babylon. 

When  the  King  grew  ill  in  thought,  • 
Even  kings  are  dull  at  times,  — 


He  would  have  his  captives  brought, 
Scores  of  kings  from  other  climes. 
"Make  them  crawl  their  four  legs  on! 
Animals!"  roared  Babylon. 

So  the  priests,  —  and  they  should  know, 
All  the  minstrels,  all  the  seers, 
Told  the  King  his  name  would  go 
Echoing  down  the  endless  years. 
"Yea.  Why  else  have  I  this  done?" 
Asked  the  King  of  Babylon. 

Purple  night  on  purple  nights, 
Stealing  in  on  gossamer  wing  — 
Came  a  flickering  of  the  lights 
And  a  crying  from  the  King ! 
Strange  winds  whisper,  mock,  and  run; 
The  arras  stirs  near  Babylon. 

Then  a  thousand  guards  came  hurrying; 
Then  a  thousand  wives  came  crying; 
70 


Hordes  of  priests  and  eunuchs  scurrying; 
"Haste!  O,  haste,  the  King  is  dying!" 
"Aye!  Make  haste,  for  I  am  done. 

Fools!  Ye  lied!"  said  Babylon. 

"While  I  lay  here,  halfway  dreaming;  — 
There  was  music  somewhere  near;  — 
Came  a  dreadful  pale  light  gleaming, 
And  a  voice  in  my  ear: 
'  Thou  wilt  die  ere  day's  begun: 
Think  on  death,  O,  Bablyon! 

"'Listen,  ere  the  spirit  goeth; 
All  thy  cities  will  be  ashes, 
All  the  wisdom  that  thou  knowest 
Will  be  merely  as  the  trash  is; 
No  man  underneath  the  sun 
Will  heed  thy  name,  O  Babylon! 

"'But  —  and  this  will  surely  kill  thee  — 
In  the  meanest  court  of  town, 
71 


There  is  one  whose  work  will  thrill  the 

Ages,  not  thy  poor  renown; 

He,  the  potter  Admirhon, 

Will  long  survive  thee,  Babylon. 

'Aye,  for  all  the  cunning  faces 
That  he  graves  upon  his  bowl, 
And  the  words  his  finger  traces, 
They  are  written  with  his  soul; 
Love,  not  wealth,  O  Babylon, 
Keeps  this  sad  world  moving  on.' " 

Hark!  A  wind  stirred  near  the  bed, 
And  the  orange  lights  grew  low, 
The  great  king  gasped  with  lifted  head, 
There  came  a  silence  —  and  then  slow, 
A  murmurous  sound  as,  with  the  sun, 
The  potters  sang  in  Babylon. 


There  was  a  king  in  Babylon, 

Babylon,  Babylon. 
The  mightiest  king  the  sun  shone  on; 

(So  they  said  in  Babylon.) 


FIFTY  YEARS  SPENT 

FIFTY  years  spent  before  I  found  me, 

Wind  on  my  mouth  and  the  taste  of  the  rain, 

Where  the  great  hills  circled  and  swept  around  me 

And  the  torrents  leapt  to  the  mist-drenched  plain; 

Ah,  it  was  long  this  coming  of  me, 

Back  to  the  hills  and  the  sounding  sea. 

Ye  who  can  go  when  so  it  tideth 

To  fallow  fields  when  the  Spring  is  new, 

Finding  the  spirit  that  there  abideth, 

Taking  fill  of  the  sun  and  the  dew; 

Little  ye  know  of  the  cross  of  the  town 

And  the  small  pale  folk  who  go  up  and  down. 

Fifty  years  spent  before  I  found  me 
A  bank  knee-deep  with  climbing  rose, 
74 


Saw,  or  had  space  to  look  around  me, 
Knew  how  the  apple  buds  and  blows; 
And  all  the  while  that  I  thought  me  wise 
I  walked  as  one  with  blinded  eyes. 

Scarcely  a  lad  who  passes  twenty 

But  finds  him  a  girl  to  balm  his  heart; 

Only  I,  who  had  work  so  plenty, 

Bade  this  loving  keep  apart: 

Once  I  saw  a  girl  in  a  crowd, 

But  I  hushed  my  heart  when  it  cried  out  loud. 

City  courts  in  January, 
City  courts  in  wilted  June, 
Often  ye  will  catch  and  carry 
Echoes  of  some  straying  tune: 
Ah,  but  underneath  the  feet 
Echoes  stifle  in  a  street. 

Fifty  years  spent,  and  what  do  they  bring  me? 
Now  I  can  buy  the  meadow  and  hill : 
75 


Where  is  the  heart  of  the  boy  to  sing  thee? 
Where  is  the  life  for  thy  living  to  nil? 
And  thirty  years  back  in  a  city  crowd 
I  passed  a  girl  when  my  heart  cried  loud! 


THE   END 


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